


glory and gore

by passionesque



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Bonnie & Clyde vibes??, Clato - Freeform, F/M, HEA, Mild Angst, look at me writing for this pair even tho the fandom is dead :"), mildly suggestive themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25378021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionesque/pseuds/passionesque
Summary: Maybe she’s crazy and had her common sense knocked out of her all those months ago. But despite every voice in her head telling her not to leave, that she’s being fucking stupid, Clove takes his hand. She’s always been unable to turn down danger even when it’s staring her in the face.Clato Mafia AU.
Relationships: Cato & Clove (Hunger Games), Cato/Clove (Hunger Games)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	glory and gore

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's been a while since I posted a Clato fic ~~even though it's just a one-shot~~ but here we go, 4 months late. Enjoy!

_in the end, it's him and i_

_he's out his head, i'm out my mind_

_we got that love, the crazy kind_

_**\- Him & I, G-Eazy & Halsey** _

Being asked to help a friend out on her day off isn’t exactly part of her plans. But screw it. Clove needs the money. Plus from what she hears from passing comments from customers, _District Two_ is where the big tippers are.

So, that’s how Clove finds herself pouring drinks for smug assholes and their tittering arm candies on a Saturday night. If she’d known how good the money was, she would’ve come here all those months ago. Never mind the terrible pick up lines and leering eyes—those she can handle—but hearing the bar is owned by some notorious gang does set a line of tension in her spine.

After everything, she has enough of those.

Clove figures she just has to keep her head down and her eyes to herself and she’ll be good as gold. If everything goes her way, she would be in and out with no issue and a few hundred dollars richer. Of course, that plan of hers goes to hell when a blond customer waves her over.

Apprehension creeps in when she approaches. What sets this man apart from the others is his lack of companions and the off-putting jewellery that blinds her eyes. He is tall— _huge,_ his width taking a small section of the bar. Surprisingly, people edge away from him without complaint. Somehow, she feels there is something about him that just screams predatory. For a moment, she stares, taking in those baby blues and the shadows cast on the planes of his face from the dim lights.

“You’re new.” His voice is deep and a little rough, sending tiny frissions of sparks down her back.

She blinks but continues pouring another customer’s drink, slyly sidestepping the comment. “A regular, then.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up. “You can say that.”

Clove doesn’t respond, but takes his order before sliding his glass of whiskey towards him. If she thinks this is the end of it, she’s wrong when he begins to pull her into conversation.

“What do you think of the place?”

Furrowing her brows, she purses her lips, unsure of what to say. “It’s nice, but not my type,” she answers carefully, her instincts telling her this man is _someone_.

“It isn’t?” A small smirk forms on his lips and Clove finds herself having a difficult time tearing her gaze away from his mouth.

“No.” 

“Then show me where you’d like to go.”

She arches a brow, leaning closer. “Why would I? I don’t know you.” 

His eyes crinkle, gleaming with something she deems as anticipatory. “Cato.”

Silently, she debates giving her name to a total stranger but it’s not like she’s giving her address or phone number or even her full name. Besides, there is something terribly magnetising about the man that makes it hard for her to refuse him.

“Clove.”

A flash of his white teeth and she realises her heart is pounding erratically in her chest.

“Wanna get out of here?”

She snorts and tilts her head, wiping down the counter with the rag on her right. “I’m working.”

Cato grins—a razor sharp one with teeth—as he shrugs. “I know the owner and I doubt he minds.”

Maybe she’s crazy and had her common sense knocked out of her all those months ago. But despite every voice in her head telling her not to leave, that she’s being fucking stupid, Clove takes his hand. She’s always been unable to turn down danger even when it’s staring her in the face.

His palm is warm as it encloses over hers when he leads them out. Together, they bar hop, drinking and dancing and talking and laughing and if Cato’s hand lingers on her back longer than is considered friendly, Clove pretends not to notice. 

It’s been so long since she’s had this much fun, feeling like she doesn't have a single care in the world that she’s almost drunk on the sole feel of it. Plus, it certainly doesn’t hurt to have a _very_ attractive male pay her attention. Cato looks at her as though she’s the most interesting person he’s ever met and Clove revels in it.

Hence, it comes as no surprise when she finds herself in a strange and unfamiliar bed the next morning, naked and with the world’s worst hangover. 

Blinking hard, she doesn’t take in her surroundings but peers at Cato slumbering at her side. He’s sprawled out on his stomach, a heavy hand resting around her waist as he snores softly. Her cheeks flush a little when she takes in the faint pink scratches on his back and the marks she’d left on his neck. Regardless, she slips out of the bed silently, gathering her clothes and wiping off her smeared makeup. With that, she creeps out of the door without giving the blond a second glance before heading home.

Although she hardly does one-night stands, Clove can hardly complain when the events of last night left her sore all over in a _good_ way. From her hazy memories, she can recall Cato being perfectly rough and she, matching his intensity. Still, she shrugs, tugging her jacket tightly around her shoulders as she hails a cab. It was a one-time thing. She doubts she’ll ever see him again nor does she want or need to. 

Of course, she’s proven wrong a week later when she swings her door open to see _him_ on her doorstep. He has a fist raised in the air which he promptly drops when he meets her gaze.

“What,” Clove frowns, nose scrunching up, “are _you_ doing here?” she demands. 

“You’re a hard girl to track down.” 

She gapes at him, her caffeine-deprived mind struggling to come up with a proper answer to that when Cato was literally at her apartment. In front of her. On a Saturday morning. “ _Why_ and _how_ are you here?” she snaps, face twisting into a scowl. “I didn’t give you my address.” 

Blue meets green and Clove could feel her stomach quiver with something she recognises as anticipation. She shifts her feet, eyes glancing away for a moment. So, sue her. It’s been a long time since she had fucking good sex and it’s not her fault her body craves _more_ especially when the cause of her many orgasms is right in front of her.

His mouth twitches. “Let me take you out.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Let me take you out for breakfast,” he repeats smoothly, adopting a cajoling tone as he leans against the doorframe (since when has the man stepped this close anyway?). “You look like you need a decent cup of coffee.” 

Immediately, Clove grimaces, taking an inconspicuous wary step backwards into her flat, trying to ignore the fact he practically towers over her. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not interested nor do I want a boyfriend.”

Cato arches an eyebrow. “Presumptuous, aren’t you?”

Despite her cheeks flushing, her eyes narrow and she crosses her arms. “I’m serious,” she huffs. “That night was just a one-off and I don’t even know how you got my address. Stalker much?”

He ducks his head down, a glimmer of a grin on his mouth. “I have connections—”

“Connections,” Clove interjects dryly. “Like how you’d know the owner of that bar wouldn’t mind…”

And it hits her.

“You’re the owner,” she says flatly, stiffening a little when she remembers the rumours the bar was owned by a high-profile gang in the area. However, Clove doesn’t look away. Instead, she tilts her chin defiantly, almost daring him to deny it. 

To his credit, he slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, utterly unrepentant. “I take it you’ve received the money?”

Abruptly, her gut churns. Upon receiving cash in her bank account the following day, Clove had figured Cato had sweet-talked the owner into paying her for the few hours she’d worked at _District Two_. But with her recent revelation of his actual identity, the sting of the act made her feel cheap, dirty— _used_.

Fingers tightening on the edge of the door, she glowers at him, pressing her lips into a thin line. Without bothering to close her door, she stalks back into her home, rummages through her purse to find a decent amount of cash. Clove can’t explain it but never has she felt this humiliated before in her life. So much so that she doesn’t think twice and throws the crumpled bills in his face. 

“You can have your fucking money back,” she hisses and jabs her index finger in his chest indignantly. “I’m not some fucking whore who sleeps with people for cash!” 

Hell, she doesn’t care that he’s a dangerous man who could slit her throat and leave her body in a random dumpster. She’s infuriated. 

She doesn’t wait for him to respond but throws him one last murderous glare before slamming the door shut. Though Clove has to admit the stunned expression on his face is priceless.

* * * * *

As expected, owning a small apartment situated in the not too well off area of Panem requires her to get a proper job to pay the bills and not to mention the necessities. But while it’s a pain, Clove doesn’t mind. It’s hers and she’s fully independent—something she wasn’t more than a year ago. Hence, it makes her treasure her freedom even more, to protect it with every fibre of her being. 

She may work as a bartender on some nights to get the extra cash but usually, she works at a nondescript cafe. Waitressing and pouring coffee isn’t too bad when most of her customers are nice and way too agreeable who give pretty decent tips.

Her shift has just started and she’s prepping the coffee machines when _he_ walks in. 

Clove really isn’t surprised. If Cato could find out where she lived, finding where she worked was probably child’s play. 

Resisting the urge to sigh and pinch the bridge of her nose, she turns to the front, watching as he makes his way towards her with the counter being the only thing separating them. She eyes him appreciatively as he ambles closer. With him dressed casually in a white button down shirt rolled up to his elbows and a pair of dark jeans, she swallows hard and shifts her gaze away. Zeroing on the sleek black car parked in the front, she muses sardonically that it’s a good thing the cafe is empty. As her gaze returns to him, she wonders distantly if he’s armed.

Before he can get a word in, Clove cuts in swiftly, throwing a dark glare at him. “I don’t want you here. Please leave. _Now.”_

“Not even to hear an apology?”

Clove pauses, eyes flicking up from under her lashes to look at him. From the small smirk on his lips and the daring gleam in his eyes, it’s as if he knows that will get her attention.

It does. She does like apologies. But only if she isn’t the one giving them. 

Clove raises her brows. “Apology?”

“It wasn’t my intention to make you feel like you’ve been paid for spending the night with me,” he says lowly. “It was payment for you working those few hours at the bar. Nothing more, nothing less.”

There isn’t a single trace of mockery or laughter on his face. His hot gaze makes her cheeks redden and she shifts on her feet, a little taken aback by the sincerity of his words and how he evokes the fluttery sensation in her stomach. For the briefest of moments, she wonders if his back still bears the scratches she’d given him in the throes of passion. 

Her face feels warmer and Clove hastily glances away but she does catch Cato’s smirk broadening, resulting in her knees turning weak. 

Fuck. 

Leaning closer, he tilts his head, causing a lock of his hair to fall over his forehead. “What time do you get off work?”

“Why?” She mirrors him, tilting her head and crossing her arms. “It’s not like you don’t already know.” 

He grins unrepentantly and cards a hand through his hair, causing the blond strands to be more tousled, making him look boyishly handsome. “Let me take you out.” 

She sniffs, ignoring the way her heart pounds. “What if I don’t want you to?”

“Don’t you?”

Scowling, she turns away and fills her hands with something to keep her busy even though a huge part of her aches to say yes, to spend more of her time with this man who makes her feel things she hadn’t in a very long time. 

“It depends if I feel like seeing your face again,” she says noncommittally, feeling those piercing eyes boring a hole in the side of her face. “Now,” she shoots him an unimpressed stare. “While you may not have an actual job, I do. Aren’t you leaving?”

Cato ducks his head a little as a laugh leaves his mouth. 

It’s rough, throaty, awfully masculine and it sends her memories of that fated Saturday night. Instantaneously, hot liquid arousal pools between her legs and she shuffles back, pressing her thighs together. 

Fuck, why couldn’t she control her reactions where this man is concerned?

“See you later,” he calls out before turning on his heels. 

Clove debates on arguing with him that she hadn’t given him a definite yes and that he shouldn’t be presumptuous (yes, she is so throwing his words back at him) but as she watches his retreating form, she doesn’t. No doubt the man would come up with some stupid way to make her all flustered and lose the ability to speak.

Still, she tries her best to ignore his smug smirk when she slides into the passenger seat of his car eight hours later. And if that isn’t enough, that small shrill voice in the back of her head starts its regular questioning of her life choices. Yeah, fine. Whatever. So far, it has been one mistake after another and as Cato skillfully guides the steering wheel, she wonders if she’s getting herself into trouble. Again.

However as the evening progresses, Cato shows to be thoughtful, bringing her to a more casual diner to eat, making her feel comfortable in her plain black shirt and jeans. What’s more, he makes her laugh, confirming the fact that they don’t need alcohol to interact and that whatever had gone on that night was not a fluke. Additionally, Clove can’t deny the attraction and energy that sizzles whenever their skin makes contact.

But the adrenaline junkie in her comes out to play when Cato recklessly speeds down the empty roads in his sports car. Feeling the startling rush of air against her face and how loud the engine purrs when he presses his foot against the accelerator, she throws her head back and laughs.

She doesn’t miss the admiring glances Cato gives, or how his eyes linger on her, darting from her eyes, to her mouth, to her throat.

Her lips quirk up for the barest of seconds. For someone who partakes in whatever _activities_ he does for his particular profession, Cato wears his heart on his sleeve quite plainly. She likes that.

Naturally, she ends up in his bed again. 

Clove isn’t ashamed about that or how easy it makes her seem. She avidly remembers how good the last time had been and she doesn’t regret it. Not one bit. Not with the way Cato had made her see stars with his body rocking into hers or how he’d marked her again and again with his teeth and fingers. Nor can she forget how he’d put her first each and every time. He’d been a gentleman, where it counted.

And yeah, she may not do one-night stands, but this is considered a two-night stand, right? Regardless, she doesn’t really think it falls into any of the categories, not with the way Cato had looked at her last night. There had been interest and what seemed like promises of _more._

But when she wakes up alone in his bed, disappointment surges in her gut and bitter acceptance twists violently in her heart. She’d miscalculated, read signs that weren’t there, drew conclusions that weren’t hers to make and now she’s the only fool in the room.

Humiliation sinks in her bones like lead weight and it feels even worse because Cato isn’t even around for the awkward morning after. No doubt he’s expecting her to take off without a word. Swallowing hard and fisting her hands into the white twisted sheets, Clove steadies herself, forcing her mind to slow down and to focus on getting out of there before he returns. 

Just as she rights herself, pulling away from the tangled white sheets around her legs, Cato walks in and pauses. He leans against the doorframe and Clove absolutely hates how perfect he looks. She knows her hair is a dark mess around her head and bloody hell, she isn’t even dressed, but for the life of her, she can’t seem to move.

“You look good there.”

“What?” 

“You look good in my bed.”

That stirs her into action. She makes a face and grabs her clothes, ignoring how his steady gaze on her body scorches her from the inside. Clove notes with irritation that the ache between her thighs is intensified when she tugs on her jeans. Fucking asshole wanker. 

“Running out on me again?” 

“Yeah,” she snaps, sparing him a quick glance before she snaps on her bra and adjusts her shirt. “What else does it look like?”

“I thought you’ll have changed your mind about being interested.”

Her mind comes to a stop and Clove blinks and looks up. “Huh?”

From his spot, Cato shrugs and crosses his arms. “Before, at your apartment, you said you weren’t interested in getting attached…”

Within her chest, her lungs expand and her heart skips a beat. Could those things in her stomach be actual butterflies?

Cocking an eyebrow, she rests a hand on her hip. “Presumptuous, aren’t you?” she retorts, meeting his gaze evenly— _daringly._

Clearly recognising his answer from that fateful day, Cato’s answering grin says everything and she scoffs while trying to fight off the smile on her face. But with how his grin has morphed into a smirk, she knows she’s failed. 

“So?” he prompts, running a hand through his hair, causing the blond tufts to stick up wildly. “What do you say?”

“I don’t know,” she begins coyly, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. “You haven’t taken me out for breakfast yet.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Too bad,” she scoops up her bag and slings it over her shoulder. “I already have plans.”

Cato snorts and before she can react, he’s in front of her, wrapping his hands around her waist and tossing her over his shoulder. “Yeah, with me.”

“Cato!” she screeches, kicking her legs wildly, thumping her fists into his back. “Put me down!”

The blond doesn’t respond but she knows he is beyond smug when a palm lands on her ass. She shrieks, body jerking more from the surprise of the act than pain itself. Still, she ceases her struggles and feigns a sulk as he deposits her in the front seat. 

“You asshole,” she mutters under her breath. But with the amused knowing glance shot her way, Clove knows Cato is fully aware the act she’s putting is merely a front.

And somehow, he must have stalked her without her even knowing because she positively gapes when a plate full of waffles is placed in front of her. Clove eyes the perfect golden brown treat that is drizzled with maple syrup and chocolate, topped with vibrant red strawberries sitting atop large chunks of whipped cream.

“You know, the food is there for consumption, not for gawking.”

“Shut up.” She narrows her gaze. “Then why aren’t _you_ digging in?”

“Ladies first.” 

She scoffs and picks up her fork. “I’m not a lady.”

He grins. “I know. And I’m glad you aren’t.”

Clove will not admit to being slightly flustered by that remark. She will not. Unsure of how to respond, she lowers her attention to her breakfast and cuts a piece of her buttery goodness before chewing it.

“So?”

“Hmm?” she hums, feigning ignorance when she clearly knows what he’s trying to get at. 

_“Clove.”_

She looks up and the impatient, yet slightly desperate expression on his face makes her mouth twitch. “What?”

His brows crease. “Are you seriously going to make me spell it out?”

“I’ll think about it,” she says off-handedly, avoiding his gaze as she lowers her eyes to her waffles.

Truthfully, it isn’t Cato making her hesitate. Clove likes him— _fucking hell,_ she really does. Plus, sex with him is more than great and that in itself is a huge benefit. And if she were anyone else, she’d jump into his arms within a heartbeat. Unfortunately, it’s her past experience and bad choices causing her to think twice. Is it really wise of her to dip her toes back into a situation that’s so terribly similar to the one she’d left behind less than two years ago? 

“Well, clearly, I see I need to put in more effort then. As long as you don’t call the cops on me for harassment.” 

Her gaze snaps toward his. Cato is drinking his coffee, but the soft look in his eyes and the way he grins at her after erases the doubts lingering in her mind as well as the warning bells that sound whenever he’s near. 

Her heart skips a beat. 

She takes the leap, jumps off the cliff, speeds past the stop signs without any form of hesitation. Clove leans forward before tugging the front of his plain shirt so that their lips meet.

* * * * *

The months pass in flashes and looking back, Clove doesn’t know why she ever hesitated or thought things would settle. Nor had she thought it would’ve been this easy for her to find a place at Cato’s side.

But it was.

It’d been fast car rides, late nights meals and long conversations that were filled with hot kisses and stupid jokes. Cato made her laugh and whenever she was with him, it felt like one hell of a rollercoaster ride. With him, he made her feel alive, treasured— _wanted_.

And for someone who went through most of her life being neglected and forgotten, being wanted was like an aphrodisiac. Ultimately, it hadn’t been a surprise how hard and fast she’d fallen (She’s not admitting _that_ aloud because what she’s feeling is totally alien and a hard pill to swallow, so she’s keeping that card close to her chest).

Of course, among her newly-emerging feelings, she stays silent about her past as well. Not that it’ll work for long. Clove is ever aware of the thoughtful and speculative glances Cato gives in her direction when he thinks she isn’t looking.

Again, it’s a wonder he’s lasted this long in his current profession without having a poker face.

Or maybe, it’s just Clove herself that finds it easy to read him like a picture book.

As she falls in deeper, charmed and seduced by the glitter and flashing lights, the familiarity of this life—this world, old habits begin to set in. Clove has taken to wearing her knives again. Her eyes always scan for all possible exits and entrances whenever she’s out and she’s back to eyeing all weapons in the vicinity. Like how Cato always carries two guns with him—one on his belt and the other at his right ankle. 

But what sets things differently this time is her hold on her independence. 

She’s fought so hard and long to get to where she is and Clove refuses to give any of that up. Cato, to his credit, understands (or at least he tries) and so, she plays the nondescript bartender, serving clueless and unsuspecting customers at her boyfriend’s bars, eavesdropping and picking up any chatter that might be useful. Being the perfect uninterested and sympathetic bartender earns her a fair amount of tips and attention, which of course Cato is more than jealous of. 

Which brings her to the present.

Sliding two tumblers of whiskey down the counter, she tosses her hair over her shoulder, fully aware of Cato’s heated gaze aimed at the side of her face. Clove smirks, throwing him a _look_ over her shoulder and delighting in the way his eyes flash even though he’s seated halfway across the room.

A cat and mouse, that’s what they are. Who is who? It all depends on the situation and place and honestly, Clove wouldn’t have it any other way.

She glances at her watch, noting the end of her shift. Without bothering to see if her replacement has arrived, she pushes herself up and slides over the counter, but not without snatching a bottle of bourbon from the rack. Dating her boss does have its perks, she muses as she navigates through the throng of people towards the VIP booth. 

It’s nice that there’s already an empty spot beside Cato. As though everyone in the booth knows it’s for her and her alone. Cato’s face lights up when she approaches and Clove doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of that expression. Smoothly, she slides into that space and immediately, her boyfriend slings an arm around her waist, tugging her close before resting his hand on her bare thigh. 

To her, the action seems somewhat possessive but it thrills her to her very bones. So much so, that she turns and whispers something terribly indecent in his ear. 

Predictably, Cato stiffens and his hand grips her thigh warningly. Though, the wolfish smirk he shoots her turns her insides into molten mush. She sucks in a huge breath and squeezes her legs together, shifting in her seat as her boyfriend drags his palm higher, inching closer to the hem of her dress.

If the others around them are aware of their exchange, they ignore it.

The past months where she’d been at Cato’s side, she’s gotten to know most of his associates, like his right-hand man, Marvel, as well as his on-and-off girlfriend, Glimmer—a tall willowy blonde that Clove gets along quite well with. There are others too, but with the alcohol buzzing in her veins, she can’t quite put a name to their faces. 

Nevertheless, she passes the bourbon over to Marvel and leans back, watching the group dynamics play out. She’s never been one to socialise... _much,_ hence, she’s more than content to listen and observe, only participating when needed.

From how Glimmer and Marvel are behaving, exchanging whispers and hard kisses, Clove can strongly assume they’re back together. Taking a glass of what smells like brandy from a waitress, she sips slowly, leisurely scanning her eyes across the crowd.

She doesn’t know what tips her off. It could be the energy—the atmosphere of the place, or the several black-suited men standing in the shadows. If it hadn’t been for their severe countenance, they would’ve blended right in with the Friday night crowd. But with them not even making a proper attempt to fit in, she narrows her eyes.

Despite her multiple bad life choices, Clove knows she’s managed to stay alive this long because she listens to her sixth sense. And right now, it’s screaming at her, warning her that danger is literally right around the corner.

She straightens, hands going to the knives at her waist as she subtly cranes her neck to get a proper unrestricted view of the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Cato murmurs in her ear, no doubt feeling how tense she’s gotten.

“I—” she begins but cuts herself off when something metallic glints from the corner of her eyes. 

Turning, she spots two men making their way through the crowd. When they’re about a mere few feet away, she gets ready to react, but it is as if everything slows down when one of them raises a gun in the air, taking aim in her direction.

To her utmost horror, she realises that Cato— _her Cato_ is their target.

She wants to shout a warning, but knows it’ll be too late if she does. The music goes mute in her ears and somewhere in her peripheral, Cato is earnestly trying to grab her attention. 

Ignoring him and the others around her, she ducks down and snatches the weapon at the blond’s ankle. Upon releasing the safety button, she promptly aims the muzzle at her target and fires. 

Despite not having a silencer on the gun, hardly anyone reacts when the bullet is released. The screaming and panicking only start when her target falls, dragging a few others to the ground along with his dead weight.

She doesn't wait to see the aftermath of her actions. Instead, she continues firing at the black-suited men until the magazine is empty. It isn’t hard to pick out who her enemies are. All she has to do is point out the menacing looking men heading towards them amongst the fleeing crowd.

Discarding the gun in favour of her knives, she breathes in deeply, tightening her hold on her blades. With the blood roaring in her ears, Clove can hear nothing but the pounding of her heart. Her gut churns with anxiety while adrenaline shoots through her veins like heroin and Clove throws caution to the wind with how her behaviour might look to the others.

By now, Cato and the others have sprung into action, promptly engaging the men both physically and in gunfights. Bullets spray wildly, causing glass to shatter and it is a wonder she isn’t shot by accident.

She’s managed to pin three men down with her knives by throwing them at their jugulars when she sees a man attempting to target Cato from the back

Her lips curl derisively and she takes out her last remaining blade and heads to his direction. Leaping onto a chair, she runs from table to table, jumping and avoiding the other brawls with agility and flexibility she hadn’t used for close to twenty months. When she’s about a few feet away, she braces herself and leaps from the counter, hands outstretched, the wickedly-curved tip of her blade aimed at the man’s spine. 

Of course, she doesn’t miss and drags the cold steel down, cleaving through fabric and more importantly, flesh. Her victim howls and begins thrashing, trying to shake her off. Unfortunately for him, Clove has had experience and she doesn’t relent. Instead, she hisses and claws at his neck before twisting the handle, and not once does she lose her balance or her grip when the man crumples to the ground.

But it is just her luck that a meaty arm wraps itself around her throat and squeezes. 

She gasps shakily, fingers digging into her assailant’s forearm viciously as her body fights to retain it’s limited airflow. With how fuzzy the sides of her vision are getting and how her legs kick uselessly, Clove knows she’s not going to last long. Her lashes flutter and her mouth gapes uselessly as she starts to lose all feeling in her limbs.

Astonishingly, the tight hold on her neck slackens and air is rushing back into her lungs. Clove shoves the arm away and drops to all fours as she coughs and sucks in oxygen greedily like an addict. Blinking hard through teary eyes, she looks up to see Cato twisting the neck of the man who had her in a chokehold. 

The deafening sound of a neck being disjointed echoes but Clove can hardly bring herself to care. She shifts gingerly, hissing when her knees scrape along the glass-littered ground. Her legs and palms are streaked with blood from the tiny cuts and she knows that ugly bruises are going to appear by morning.

From the triumphant shouts and jeers that echo around the deserted bar, she can acutely guess that Cato’s men have gotten rid of everyone else, as can be seen of some figures piling the dead bodies into a corner. Across the room, she can see Marvel’s lanky figure dragging a struggling form towards a room and she shifts her gaze away, too aware of Cato’s eyes on her.

She makes the mistake of glancing in his direction and she’ll be honest. The slight wariness and suspicion in his gaze makes her stomach churn, like she’d drank curdled milk. 

Strangely enough, Cato doesn’t speak or confront her like she expects. Instead, he simply picks her up, cradling her in his arms as though she’s a porcelain doll, ever mindful of the various injuries she’d gotten. As he sets her down on the edge of a marble counter, Clove notes that his hold is gentle— _tender._

The lump in her throat grows bigger.

“Are you okay?” he asks roughly, breaking the silence as his thumb swipes away a streak of blood from her cheek.

“Y-yeah,” she croaks, voice slightly hoarse from being strangled. “I’m good.”

“He didn’t touch you?” Cato narrows his gaze, eyes raking over her small form, calloused hands dragging down her arms gently, as though he’s making sure she’s actually alright and isn’t glossing over anything.

Clove shakes her head slowly, more thrown by the lack of questions and accusations than how he bends to attend to the myriad of cuts that mar her legs. She’s unsure where and how Cato manages to get a damp rag but he cleans her wounds clinically, pulling out the glass that is embedded in her skin with precision and care. As he picks the tiny shards out, she studies him from beneath her lashes, noting the way his hair falls over his forehead. Thankfully, he is unharmed and with the exception of his white button down splattered with blood and drinks and fuck knows what else, she still thinks he looks as dashing as ever, especially with the minute furrow in his brows as he works on her.

As she tucks her hair behind her ears, her body sags and now that adrenaline isn’t racing throughout her veins, her brain becomes aware of the sting of her injuries. She winces, knee jerking on reflex when Cato brushes against a particularly deep cut. Her neck feels taut and she finds it harder to breathe and Clove knows should she peer into a mirror, the bruises around her throat would be astronomical. If all of that isn’t enough, she can literally feel the distrustful hostile looks aimed her way.

Cato is still attending to her and she wants to start, to break the uncomfortable silence that is steadily growing but nervousness and apprehension roil in her gut and it feels like her tongue is glued to the top of her mouth. The words she wants to say, the explanation she ought to give is stuck in the back of her throat and she bites her lower lip hard.

In the back of her mind, Clove wonders if Cato would still want her if he knows she’s… _tainted._ Unsurprisingly, that very thought makes her want to throw up.

As if on cue, Cato looks up and her breath stutters. Clove is frozen to her very bones as he meets her gaze evenly, blue eyes probing.

In that one glance, she sees a million questions and a million answers. 

Just then, Marvel breaks the moment as he slinks towards them quietly. For the first time, she doesn’t even have an inkling of what the sandy-blond haired man is thinking as he slides a pack of blood-stained knives in her direction. Knives that belong to her. Knives that she used to kill four men not just an hour ago.

“I believe these are yours?” Marvel’s tone is mild, but his face is stone cold.

She nods mutely and takes them. 

More judgemental and wary eyes are cast towards her and Clove straightens, lifting her chin. All of her life, she’s never been one to shy away from disapproval or judgement and she will not start now. She fidgets and fights the urge to duck her head and play with the lacy hem of her dress and clears her throat. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Cato furrows his brows. “About what?”

“About my knives. About the gun. About how I just killed probably more than four men,” she snaps. “Do you really have nothing to say about any of that?”

Cato shrugs and leans back, “Not really, no.” A sardonic smirk forms on his lips. “We all kinda knew.” 

_“What?!”_

“For someone who has secrets like yours, you’re pretty bad at hiding it. Heck, you’re fucking obvious.” There is no mistaking the amusement nor the faint trace of mockery in his tone.

“Cato!” she growls and pins him with a withering glare. “What do you know? And how? And who else knows?” Warily, she watches as he picks up one of her knives and examines it critically, turning it deftly with his fingers.

 _“I_ know this isn’t standard issue,” he observes, tracing his thumb over the curved serrated edge of the cool steel. “It’s custom-made and it’s clearly designed to hurt.” His eyes return to her. “And it’s not the first time I’ve seen it.”

Her jaw drops. “What?” she sputters, grabbing the blade from him. “Y-you! What the fuck do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” 

_“Cato!”_ she growls warningly.

His teeth flash against his lips as the corners of his eyes crease. “You left your pack of knives lying somewhere in our room a few months back. I saw it and asked Marvel, who in turn asked Glimmer and then—”

“Okay, I get it,” she interjects hastily, glancing away to where the aforementioned couple is standing. “But well,” she pauses, her gaze returning to his. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think it was right to pry, figured you’ll tell me in your own time. And I was mostly right.” When she doesn’t respond, he fixes a penetrating stare on her. “So, the only question I do want to ask is, _how?”_

For the briefest of moments, she debates on telling the truth or lying. But Clove is tired. She’s tired of hiding and second-thinking everything. So she goes for the former.

“You’re not the first mobster I’ve been with.”

Cato reacts physically. He jerks in his spot. His eyes flash, his jaw clenches and he presses his lips into a thin line. But he doesn’t say anything.

She takes the opportunity to continue. “It was a couple of years ago and in short, it wasn’t a good relationship with great moments and it didn’t end well. There. Now you know.” 

“So you have a type, then.”

“No, I…” her voice falters before she gathers the remnants of her courage and peers up at him from beneath her lashes. “I did want a new start where I didn’t constantly have to watch what I did or say. Where I could just be—”

“I see.”

Clove hates how even and flat his voice sounds. “That was my plan at first,” she rushes out, “but then I met you and you… you changed my mind."

That quiet admission sends heat crawling up to her cheeks and she ducks her head down. She’s unable to look at him. Talk of matters of the heart is something she’s never been good at. She’s always left feeling too vulnerable and exposed, and Clove resents how easy it allows anyone to exploit her.

She makes a move to draw back, to remove herself from this fucking situation but Cato clamps a hand on her ankle. Before she can protest, he slides his palms upwards, fixing them on the top of her thighs as he moves in between her legs to stare her down. The familiar grip steadies her and the bit of tension nestled in her shoulders loosens. Distantly, she recognises his hands, the same hands that snapped a neck twenty minutes ago are now providing her with some form of comfort. The dichotomy should kill her but Clove erases the thought.

Morality is an issue she’d gotten over a long time ago. 

She takes the risk and looks up. Cato eyes are impossibly soft before he reaches up to stroke her cheek tenderly with the pad of his thumb. 

The small action calms the raging turmoil in her heart, silencing the anxiety and fear that had existed since she let the first knife fly. Never mind Cato’s lack of verbal responses because if there is one thing that Clove knows, it’s that Cato is even worse at voicing his feelings, more so than her. 

“So you’re not mad?” she confirms. Fucking hell, she’s an insecure mess now but _goddamnit_ she needs the assurance and security that Cato provides. Though she knows she’ll hate how needy and clingy she sounds come morning.

“No, of course not.” He frowns and tugs at her chocolate tresses lightly. “You’re owed your secrets but I’ll admit I was getting impatient, wondering when you’ll finally share. Besides, I am sorry about tonight.”

“What?” She must have heard wrongly. What the fuck did Cato have to apologise for? 

“You were in danger because of me,” he growls, murderous rage twisting his handsome features as he pulls away slightly to look down at her. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she says slowly. “I know what you do and the risks that come with it… and I’m still here. Plus,” she bumps her knee against thigh, “and now you know I can take care of myself and have your back”

He watches her, an incomprehensible expression on his face. “You’re not gonna run?” 

She licks her lower lips. “No. Never.”

Cato pauses for a hairbreadth of a second. “Good.”

And his lips are on hers. 

This, she feels, is different. Clove is used to the lust driven kisses that always got her turned on, the affectionate ones that make her toes curl and the casual pecks that were born from familiarity and habit—that meant safety. But _this._ This is a whole different ball game. 

Fingers curling against the edge of her jaw, Cato kisses her slowly, _hotly._ And Clove is _lost,_ lost in the tornado of feelings that Cato is trying to convey from the mere act of their mouths pressed together. She’s drowning. She’s sinking. She’s flying. Her chest aches so fucking sweetly and she grabs his shoulders tightly, digging her fingernails into the stretch of muscle through the linen of his shirt, unwilling to ever let go.

His tongue flicks against her lower lip and she muffles a soft moan, arching her back when Cato pulls her closer. The heat of his hand on her waist, thumb dangerously close to the side of her breast is dizzyingly distracting and Clove knows she can never give any of this up. She’d have to be mad to do so.

With Cato being the sole focus of her attention, it is a miracle she manages to pull away. It is admittedly, one of the most difficult things she’d done considering how he’d been doing that _thing_ with his tongue and how fucking amazing his kisses are.

Leaning her forehead against his, she catches her breath, not missing how Cato looks absolutely wrecked. His short blond locks are tousled, lips red and swollen and the way he looks at her through half-lidded eyes sends a dark thrill down her spine and Clove squirms on her spot. 

“We’re good?” she checks once more just to be sure. “You’re really not—”

“Yeah.”

Relief is a heady aphrodisiac but with how free she feels from having no more secrets from Cato, she’s _incandescent._ Smiling, she presses closer, allowing him to bandage the minor scrapes on her hands and forearms. The care and gentleness he adopts makes her want to bury her face in his chest but she holds back. They’re still in public and Clove refuses to let anyone see the finer, more intimate details of their relationship.

She reaches out, brushing his blond locks away from his forehead and the thought of how close she had been at losing him, shakes her to the very core. It ought to frighten her, considering how attached she has gotten but with the recent revelations she’d gotten from that kiss, she’s feeling more than secure and confident.

“Any idea who was behind the attack?”

Cato scowls, rubbing his jaw. “Yes and they’ll certainly get their comeuppance.”

“Good. No one’s allowed to kill you except me,” she declares, tilting her head. “They’ll have to wait in line.”

Her boyfriend snorts, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “What? You gonna fuck me to death?”

The arrogance irritates her and just to be contrary, she grabs another knife—a different blade than the one Cato picked up earlier—and shoves the edge of it under his chin, watching as he freezes when the cold steel makes contact with his throat. Clove doesn’t care, not even when a bead of crimson wells up, a stark contrast to the tanned column of his throat.

His lips curve and there is no mistaking the dilation of his pupils despite the dim lighting in the bar. Cato bats her hand away and smirks wickedly. “I wouldn’t mind if you killed me because the last thing I’ll see is you with your knives and it’s fucking hot.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes. Though the sheer relief flooding through her body at how they’re back to _Clove and Cato_ and _Cato and Clove_ almost drowns her.

Sniffing, she arches a brow. “I may be open to pretty much anything but please don't tell me you’re into knife play because I am _not.”_

Cato chokes and laughs and pulls her in for another kiss and if he mumbles _you’re bloody perfect_ against her lips, she pretends not to hear it. But she allows the words to sink into her heart, to nourish her battered soul with them.

And it totally doesn’t matter they’re covered in both blood and spilt drinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Would like to know what you lovelies think and I do hope the ending is alright because I've rewritten it 5 times and I'm still barely satisfied with how it turned out. But I couldn't wait any longer so I posted it. But, I hope you guys enjoy and I'll like to thank you guys for reading. <3 <3 
> 
> Also, I'm working on a few more AUs and I'm halfway done with my next one and I'll hopefully have it up by next month. :)


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